


Polyphemus

by Insomnomaniac



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: And I like moths, Angst, Anxiety, Because I'm Autistic and I Say So, Because he's called the fuckin MOTHman, Casual Danbrey, Cuddling, Duck Newton is Autistic, Everyone's a monsterfucker, F/F, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, I completely bullshitted the medical stuff here Imma be honest, Indrid Cold is also Autistic, Injury, M/M, Mothman is based off an actual moth, Not just some weirdo bird person, Weird disaster prophecy boyfriends, everyone's probably way out of character, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-16 16:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16957467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomnomaniac/pseuds/Insomnomaniac
Summary: Indrid didn't grab his glasses.The people of Kepler, West Virginia don't take too kindly to monsters.





	1. The Importance of Paying Attention

**Author's Note:**

> So I very recently fell into Indruck hell. I have scoured all available content by now, and am desperate for more, so here I am, making my own content, like some sort of _writer ___
> 
>  
> 
> (Seriously though, is there a discord or anything? Because I _need_ more content)

One would think that by now, Indrid Cold would know better than to get distracted. Sure, keeping track of all those hundreds of mental ‘televisions’ at once was… difficult, at best, but it was important. Not paying attention to those screens, not scanning each and every one within his mind’s eye to the best of his ability, looking for dangers and disasters yet to be- that was how he always messed up. Hell, it was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place; if he hadn’t gotten distracted, he wouldn’t currently be flying away from a timeline shifting tree with a black eye and a big gash on his head.  
  
It was a stupid mistake to make, too. He of all people knew the importance of not getting too attached to others, especially those who already lead dangerous lives, and yet he’d somehow managed to end up caring about those three wonderful, wonderful fools. It was only fitting that that affection be what nearly got him killed by a shovel-wielding goat man.  
  
He had been… nervous. He knew that such feelings were pointless, but had still been unable to prevent the anxiety from creeping into him. He’d needed to know, and so he’d pushed his vision further into the future, looking forward hours rather than minutes- a task which would have left him with a splitting headache even without the goat man’s interference- desperately scanning through the possible outcomes of the Pine Guards’ battle for some reassurance that they’d be alright.  
  
What he’d seen hadn’t been good. There were some in which the three humans succeeded, yes, but there were so, so many in which they failed. Horribly. He saw Aubrey’s flames backfire and consume them all. He saw Ned’s stomach split open by the shears of a raging goat man. He saw Duck crushed to a bloody pulp beneath a fallen pine tree. He saw the entire town swallowed by a hole that opened up in the earth, sending Kepler and its residents plummeting towards their deaths. Indeed, he had been so fixated on that last image that he had failed to see the goat man in his trailer breaking free from its bonds until it was far, far too late.  
  
In Indrid’s defense, he’d put up a pretty good fight, but he had also been at a massive disadvantage. He tended to operate much better in a more open-air environment, which the cramped Winnebago most definitely was not, and also the giant goat had snuck up on him and bashed him in the back of the head with a shovel. The blow had been enough to knock him to the ground, groaning and disoriented, so he hadn’t exactly stood much of a chance. The only rewards he got for his resistance were a furry-fisted punch to the eye and a hooved kick to the gut that made black spots dance across his vision. Next thing he knew, he was wrapped in chains and being dragged through the woods.  
  
All in all it actually hadn’t turned out that bad. Duck had come to save him, slicing through his chains in a demonstration of brute strength that absolutely did _not _make Indrid blush, then punched him in the face to get his glasses off and told him to fly away. He’d been unable to stop himself from grabbing hold of Duck’s shoulders with his long, spindly fingers and hurriedly warning him of the vision that still burned itself in his mind’s eye. Duck’s confession of similar prophecies was something he would definitely need to ask about later, but in the moment, the ranger’s words, his unwavering confidence, had been enough to reassure Indrid. It was only after the fact that he’d realized perhaps Duck might not have wanted to be touched by his weirdo moth hands, but if that were the case, Duck had given him no indication of it. In fact, he’d actually grabbed back, squeezing Indrid’s fuzzy forearms with big, calloused hands, staring him directly in the eye in a way that no other being ever had. Even other Sylphs had been unsettled by his compound eyes, typically preferring to look at his antennae or his mandibles or the space behind him when speaking to him, and yet Duck, a human, had stared him straight in the eyes without any hint of fear or disgust and made him a promise. There was nothing Indrid could have done but believe him. Nothing at all.__  
  
And so he’d flown away. He’d flown away until he reached a cliffside overlooking Kepler where he’d settled down and waited. It could have only been minutes that had passed, but time was a strange thing with Indrid, and so it had felt like hours that he’d sat, shivering in the snow, staring out over the quiet town and rapid-speed scanning through the potential futures that had revealed themselves thus far. There had still been far, far too many futures in which the earth swallowed Kepler whole, but Indrid had done his best not to be too disturbed. Trust Duck. He had to trust Duck. Duck had made him a promise.  
  
And Duck had been true to his word. Though a hole had indeed opened up, sending Indrid’s stomach into a freefall, it had stopped just short of the hospital, taking with it only a few empty cars and a street sign or two, but nothing else. Not a single life was lost, and a quick scan of the new futures revealed only one or two in which a death did result, but only ever due to someone accidentally falling in. The vast majority of the futures showed the sinkhole causing no more damage than a few insurance bills. The Pine Guard had succeeded. Duck had been right.  
  
With that catastrophe averted however, and the adrenaline beginning to wear off, Indrid had noticed that there was another, much more pressing issue for him right now. Now that he wasn’t focused on worrying about the lives of several hundred people, he could no longer ignore the piercing cold that tore at him. He wasn’t good with the cold in the best of circumstances (being a bug and all), and the fact that his departure from his Winnebago had been unplanned meant that he’d not had the chance to change at all, and was still very much wearing nothing but a grubby, loose tank top and jeans. To add insult to injury, it was beginning to snow.  
  
Indrid swore under his breath. He had to get back home, and quickly. It was bad enough being out in the open while undisguised, but human appearance or not, he’d freeze to death in a matter of hours if he was stuck in this weather too long. With that grim thought in mind, Indrid spread his wings and made haste back towards the RV park.  
  
It was during this flight back home that Indrid Cold made his second distraction-related mistake of the day.  
  
Again, it had been something he was unable to help. Though he knew he should have been hyper vigilant in that moment, assessing all visible futures to check for accidents or troubles that he could encounter on his way back, Indrid had wound up not paying attention at all to the countless televisions within his mind. Instead, he was doing something he hardly ever did- focusing on the present.  
  
The reason why was simple: Indrid hadn’t flown in decades. Hell, he hadn’t even stretched out his wings properly in years, ignoring the cramped discomfort for fear of being spotted in his true form. His flight away from the battle site had been haphazard at best, and a near death experience at worst. He was way out of practice, swerving and dipping uncontrollably like a toy helicopter operated by a distracted toddler. He’d nearly crashed headfirst into a pine tree more times than he’d care to admit, and the distance from the cliffside to his Winnebago made for a lot longer of a flight than his escape had been.  
  
It was because of this that Indrid found himself focused entirely on his own movements, feeling his gigantic wings beat against his back and trying to keep himself in a straight line, hovering nervously above the tops of pine trees that he was too scared to risk colliding with. He didn’t even want to try and look at any potential futures in which he just ate shit on a treetop- he was sure the number was embarrassingly high.  
  
A loud sound rang out from somewhere, and suddenly Indrid was falling. Why was he falling? He willed his wings to flap but nothing seemed to happen. What on earth was- **oh **.  
****   
The pain slammed into him like a freight train and Indrid screeched. Oh sweet and merciful Sylvain it **_hurt_**. It felt like the entire left side of his abdomen had been lit on fire. And then he hit the trees. If he’d thought things had been painful before…  
  
Indrid’s massive form plummeted through the treeline, snapping twigs and scattering needles, bouncing off of sturdier branches which sliced at his skin as he went. He felt something catch on the edge of a particularly strong branch, and not a second later he felt that same something tear, giving away as he screamed so loudly it felt as though he tore his own throat in the process. He slammed to the frozen ground moments later, his right arm landing under him with a sickening crunch and burst of pain. For several seconds, he just lay there, groaning and shuddering against the carpet of pine needles.  
  
“H-help!” He called, his voice weak and shaky, before he realized his mistake. He was in his true form right now, the absolute last thing he wanted to do was call the attention of any humans that may be nearby. They’d rip him to shreds on the spot. No, no he had to move. He had to hide.  
  
Trembling, Indrid attempted to haul himself up to his feet. Unthinkingly, he put his weight down on his right arm, which gave way immediately, sending him crashing back down to the ground with a yelp. Mistake. He had to try again. He had to. But he was so tired, and everything hurt so much, and the simple act of just getting to his feet seemed impossible in that moment.  
  
A quick glance back into his mind’s eye, a task that was incredibly hard for him to pull off at the moment, had him looking at several futures in which he did indeed just continue to lay there out in the open. Every single one of them had him being discovered- sometimes by a bear or coyote, often times by a human- and every single one of them ended in him dying horribly. It was with the burst of adrenaline provided to him by that sight that Indrid finally stood up, leaning heavily against the trunk of a nearby pine and panting, trying to catch his breath. His thorax burned with every inhale, and though he was unwilling to look down he could feel blood coming down in rivers across his skin, the flow far heavier than he was comfortable with.  
  
Staggering, Indrid dragged himself over towards a massive fallen tree- more specifically, towards the small crevice in between the tree and the ground. It was far from a perfect hiding spot, to say the least, but it wasn’t as though he had any better options. Normally, he’d look to the future(s) to try and plot his best course of action in this kind of situation, but his head had grown staticy and heavy, his vision filling up with dark spots so rapidly that he just barely made it over to the tree before collapsing into a heap of limbs and fuzz. He curled into the fetal position as best he could in a futile attempt to try and make himself seem smaller, less noticeable to any passerby who may come this way.  
  
_‘At least it wasn’t all for nothing,’ _Indrid thought, as the world finally faded to black.__  
  
\----------------------  
  
Duck needed some air.  
  
This whole day had been a non-stop shitshow, and frankly, he was about over it. In no particular order: he’d fought two goat men, one reality-fucking tree, and some weirdo light being that he’d just straight up cut in half; he’d rescued the mothman; he’d saved the town from being destroyed (again); he’d damaged Beacon; he’d gotten bashed over the head with a shovel; he’d been told that his nearly life-long… friend? Mentor? had committed genocide; said friend/mentor was now apparently going to die; he may or may not be losing all of his powers soon; and also, oh yeah, his next door neighbor was apparently in on the whole thing.  
  
Fuck this.  
  
It was with that sentiment that Duck found himself out patrolling the woods that night, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness of the Monongahela Forest, catching the paths of snowflakes as the drifted to the ground. It was silent as he walked. Not true silence, not the kind of unnatural pall that had come when the first abomination had appeared, but silence in the sense that the scene lacked humanity. Branches rustled quietly, an owl calling somewhere in the distance as his boots crunched across a thin layer of snow and frozen pine needles. No car horns blared. No people shouted. No one or nothing demanded his attention or his understanding. It was peaceful.  
  
At least until his radio let out a burst of static that nearly put him into cardiac arrest.  
  
“Duck? Hey, Duck?” Came Juno’s voice. Duck exhaled slowly, composing himself before grabbing the receiver off of his belt and answering.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Juno, you scared the shit out of me. Whaddya need?”  
  
“Oh, sorry. I was just calling to check in. I would’ve done it a lot sooner, too, but…” she sighed. “Shit’s been pretty, uh, hectic down here at the station tonight, Duck, I gotta tell ya.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Duck prompted, bemused. “What kinda shit?”  
  
“Well, Ranger Christie heard a gunshot go off while she was out patrolling, so she went over to check it out and found these two yay-hoos hangin’ ‘round the Hilderbrand with hunting rifles. Said they was out huntin’ for deer. Neither of ‘em had any sorta license, and they got real snippy with her when she tried to tell ‘em off for, ya know, huntin’ in a National Fucking Forest in the middle of winter without a license,” the exasperated, derisive tone with which she delivered those words made Duck snort. “Ended up having to call in backup to get ‘em back here. Now we’re just waitin’ on Sheriff Zeke to come on over and deal with ‘em.”  
  
“You called in Sheriff Zeke?” Duck asked, a bit taken aback. Technically, hunting without a license was a civil offense, so it was within the police’s jurisdiction, but they usually just handled these kinds of minor misdemeanors by themselves. Calling down the Sheriff just to deal with two out of line hunters was… unusual, to say the least.  
  
“Yeah, we did. Wasn’t any of our first choices, but frankly these two are… well, they’re more than we can deal with right now. Or at least, they’re more than we feel like dealing with right now, how’s that?”  
  
Duck laughed. “Yeah, I getcha. I know the type.” He could hear Juno chuckle on the other end of the line.  
  
“For real though, these guys are some straight up nutcases. Frankly, I’m startin’ to think they’re on somethin’ that’s got ‘em real whacked out ‘cause they’ve just been up here talking nonsense for almost 30 whole minutes now.”  
  
“What, they sayin’ the deer were shit talkin’ ‘em or something?” Duck questioned, bemused. He’d once had to deal with a man who’d been trying to set fire to an entire patch of trees because ‘those damn squirrels won’t shut their stupid little mouths ‘bout my mustache’. It was the kind of experience that proved both exhausting and entertaining.  
  
“Somethin’ like that,” Juno laughed. “They keep saying they shot, get this; the Mothman. The fuckin’ Mothman, Duck. Can you believe it?”  
  
Duck’s blood turned to ice.  
  
“Duck? Duck, you still there?” His hands fumbled with the receiver, shaking as he pressed down on the button.  
  
“Uh, y-yeah, I’m still here. Where, exactly, did you say those two were picked up?”  
  
“Right over by the Hilderbrand?” Juno replied, clearly confused. “Duck, is there something wro-”  
  
“Listen, Juno, I’m gonna head over there right quick and uh, see if they, uh, actually did shoot anythin’, ya know?”  
  
“What, like a Mothman?” Juno asked sarcastically. ‘Yes, exactly’, Duck thought, though he did not voice it out loud, switching his receiver off and stuffing it back into its holster as he hauled ass in the direction of the Hilderbran lock and dam.  
  
Either he hadn’t been as far away as he’d thought, or he’d been moving a whole lot faster than he’d thought, because Duck found himself at the site not three minutes later, barely even winded. He felt along the inside of his right coat pocket, before grabbing hold of and pulling out a pair of tinted red sunglasses and staring at them for a moment. Thank fuck he’d thought to grab those earlier. The last thing they needed was for Indrid to be running around Kepler in the entirety of his moth glory. From the sound of it, that already hadn’t ended well.  
  
With that thought hanging sourly in his mind, Duck rushed down along the path, scanning the woods on all sides with his flashlight, looking for any signs of fuzzy antennae or giant wings.  
  
“Indrid?!” He called. “Hey, Indrid, buddy, you out here?” No response.  
  
Duck was just beginning to convince himself that Juno’s two weirdos had been nothing more than that- weirdos- when he noticed something decidedly off. There, just a little distance into the woods, was a small pile of broken branches. He trotted over to get a closer look, and a quick assessment of the trees in the immediate vicinity revealed quite a few missing branches and scraped patches of bark. Kind of as if something huge had come crashing down into them. The second, much more worrying thing he noticed was the fact that there was… quite a bit of blood. Like, a concerning amount of blood. Duck’s stomach turned.  
  
“Indrid?! Hey, Indrid, it’s me, Duck!” he called. Still no response. Frantically, Duck looked around the area, his eyes finally catching on an odd sort of… lump, only a few feet away. It was partially obscured by a fallen tree, so he almost missed it, but if he looked closely enough at it he could almost see what looked like- oh shit.  
  
Duck bolted over to the snow dusted lump, dropping to his knees in front of it and brushing off the fine layer of snowflakes with shaking hands. His heart dropped. It was Indrid, yes, but he looked bad. For starters, he wasn’t moving, at all. Not even shivering. Massive red flag. Then there was the fact that he was cold as ice. Also not good. And then, of course, there was the still slowly bleeding gunshot wound in his abdomen (thorax? Or, wait, was thorax the chest part? He was pretty sure thorax was the chest part. Shit, what was the abdomen called?) that, while small, had to hurt like absolute hell. This wasn’t even counting the numerous scrapes and bruises that littered the Mothman’s eerily still body. God, he looked like he was… Duck’s fingers found their way to Indrid’s left… wrist (?), frantically feeling for a pulse. Shit, did Mothmen even have pulses in their wrists? Apparently the answer was yes, as he felt a faint, but present, pulsing against his skin. He let loose a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding.  
  
Indrid was still alive. He looked like shit, but he was still alive. And now it was gonna be Duck’s job to keep him that way.  
  
First things first, though; it was gonna be a whole lot easier to tend to the guy while he wasn’t, you know, a seven foot tall moth person.  
  
Glasses in one hand, Duck rolled Indrid onto his back as gently as he could before laying the frames on his fuzzy, frozen face. The transformation was instant, just like before, and Duck found himself kneeling over the same gaunt man who’d first opened the door for him only a few days ago, except considerably more beat up. Duck pulled a roll of gauze from his first aid kit, hastily bandaging the man’s still-bleeding chest before shucking off his coat and wrapping it around him. Indrid may have been taller than him, yes, but Duck was still considerably larger than him (at least, in his human form), so the scrawny seer was enveloped, almost comically, within the fabric. In any other circumstance, it would’ve been adorable.  
  
With no effort at all, Duck scooped Indrid up into his arms, holding him to his chest and trying not to shiver at how friggin cold the guy still was. Taking care not to jostle the injured man unnecessarily, Duck hurried back to his truck as fast as he could.  
  
Both the hustle back to his vehicle and the actual drive back to the lodge passed in by in a sort of haze, and Duck found himself thanking his lucky stars that nothing went wrong along the way because he absolutely would not have been able to handle it in that state. He placed Indrid in the passenger seat, buckling him up as best he could and switching on his seat warmer before cranking the old truck’s heater up to the ‘Alabama in August’ level and driving like a maniac. He would’ve preferred to keep Indrid laying down, figured that was probably the better course of action, but his backseat was covered in junk that would’ve taken way too long to move, and even if it had been clear, there was still no real way to properly seat belt somebody in that position, and he wasn’t about to run the risk of accidentally launching the poor dude and making everything worse so… passenger seat it was.  
  
The parking lot of Amnesty Lodge was empty, save for Mama’s old truck and Agent Stern’s significantly newer-looking vehicle, which was good because Duck may or may not have ended up just parking kind of diagonally across about 2 or 3 spots. Whatever. He’d come back out and fix it once there wasn’t anybody dying in his truck.  
  
He pulled Indrid’s still unconscious form out from the passenger side door, hip-checking it shut and making a beeline for the cellar doors, mentally cursing up a blue streak at Agent Stern as he did so. If that prick weren’t still hanging around, Duck would’ve just come bursting in through the front doors, shouting for Barclay and Mama to come help. He knew the two of them had some pretty extensive experience with patching folks up on their own, and he still did plan on calling them in for help, but he’d have to be a lot more subtle about it. Last thing he wanted was for Agent Stereotypical Sci-Fi Villain to get anywhere near Indrid.  
  
Getting the doors to the cellar open with a body in his arms was… a process. At least with Billy he’d had Barclay (reluctantly) there to help transport the big fella, but now he was forced to resort to trying to wedge the door open with his foot, then kick it really quickly to open it all the way. It took a few tries, as well as quite a bit of foul language, but he managed it, scrambling down the stairs and letting the door slam behind him.  
  
From the looks of things Thacker was still locked in the panic room, which was a relief. He really didn’t feel like trying to deal with that kind of Exorcist bullshit right now. Although, come to think of it, when was the last time anybody fed that guy? Aw shit, that was gonna be a whole thing, wasn’t it? Whatever. He’d deal with it later. For right now though…  
  
Duck placed Indrid on the table as gingerly as possible, pulling away the edges of his coat so as to better survey the damage. It didn’t look any better.  
  
Upon closer inspection, Indrid’s right arm was almost certainly broken. Nothing appeared to be poking through the skin, which was definitely a relief, but still- setting broken bones was way above his pay grade, so here was hoping that Barclay or Mama would know what to do. The gash on his head didn’t look too bad, all things considered, and neither did any of the other little cuts and abrasions that littered his skin. No, the real kicker was the fucking bullet hole in his side.  
  
Taking as much care as possible not to aggravate anything, Duck slowly unwrapped his hasty bandaging, wincing as he ended up having to peel it off in the areas where the blood had adhered it to Indrid’s flesh like glue. Indrid still didn’t move. On the one hand, Duck supposed that could be seen as a good thing, since it meant he wasn’t awake and having to deal with this kinda pain, but on the other hand, it was a very, very bad thing.  
  
For a guy who dealt with a whole lot of hunters, Duck knew approximately dick all about gunshot wounds. He understood the basics, like, ‘they’re really bad’ and, ‘if you get one in the head you’re probably fucked’, but as far as things like ‘how to judge the extent of damage’ or ‘how to actually treat them’ went, he knew nothing. Still, in his incredibly uninformed opinion, the injury didn’t actually look all that bad. For a bullet hole, that is. There were relatively clean entry and exit wounds- a relief, since even he knew that only seeing one of those meant you were gonna have to go in and dig the bullet out, and that was a task that he was absolutely not comfortable with doing- the bleeding wasn’t too heavy, and it didn’t look like it had hit anything important. Of course, he knew nothing whatsoever about Mothman anatomy, so he supposed he could be wrong about that, but unless the Moth-person brain was kept just above the left hip bone, then they were probably fine. Probably. Maybe. Fuck, he didn’t know!  
  
A quick check proved that yes, Indrid was still breathing, so odds were that he’d been right in his earlier assumption that nothing immediately vital had been hit, but he was still way colder than he should have been. A lot of signs pointed towards hypothermia, and that Duck did know what to do with, but there was another problem. Specifically, the fact that they were in a cellar- not typically known for being the warmest of environments. Hell, Duck could still see his own breath down here, but what he couldn’t see was any sign of a thermostat or anything else that might help the situation.  
  
Fuck. He needed help. He had no idea what he was doing, and even if he did he’d still need some backup to accomplish anything. He had to go get Barclay and Mama, there was no getting around it. And that meant he’d have to leave Indrid here while he went to go do so.  
  
His gut instinct absolutely hated the idea. It was way too cold for Indrid down here, he was still bleeding, Thacker could theoretically bust out at any moment, Agent Stern could theoretically bust in at any moment, but he didn’t exactly have much of a choice. No matter what he did, he couldn’t risk letting Agent Stern see Indrid, and the odds of that happening were significantly higher if he just came busting into the lobby with him. He had to make a break for it.  
  
“Hang in there, partner, I’ll be right back, and I’ll bring help, alright?” Duck muttered, gently patting Indrid’s disastrous hair in a gesture of comfort that the unconscious man had no way of registering, given that he was, in fact, unconscious, before hurrying up out of the cellar and into the front lobby.  
  
Though it may have looked like the middle of the night outside, it was only around 7:00, a fact that Duck would honestly probably never stop being disoriented by no matter how many winters he lived through. As such, the front lobby still had a bit of life in it. Agent Stern was nowhere to be seen, thank god, but Dani was sitting over by the roaring fireplace, sketching something in the beat-up notepad she carried around with her most places, and that older werewolf whose name Duck hadn’t learned yet was finishing up what looked like a french dip sandwich. Distantly, Duck thought that it would probably be a good idea to try and get Indrid up by that fire some time.  
  
He caught sight of Barclay stepping out of the kitchen, still wearing an apron tied around his broad waist and carrying a bulging trash bag in one giant hand, clearly headed towards the dumpsters out back. Duck cut him off, dashing up to him and grabbing a fistful of his flannel shirt.  
  
“Barclay, hey, listen man, I need your help,” Duck hissed, trying to keep his voice quiet enough so as not to be overheard by any of the lobby’s other residents.  
  
“Duck?” Barclay began. He looked happy to see him, but also obviously confused at his behavior. “I thought you’d gone home for the night. What-”  
  
“Listen partner I’m sorry to cut you off but this is kind of a time sensitive issue,” Duck interrupted. “I’ll explain in a minute but right now I need you to get Mama and come on down with me to the cellar.”  
  
“Mama’s in the middle of talkin’ with Aubrey right- is that blood?” Barclay asked, suddenly very concerned. Duck looked down to see that yes, he did indeed have some of Indrid’s blood on his hands. Shit.  
  
“It ain’t mine, Barclay, that’s the problem, now could you please just-”  
  
“Duck? What’re you doing here?” Aubrey’s voice made him turn. She, much like Barclay, looked both happy and confused to see him at the lodge. Standing just behind her, exiting from the same room, was-  
  
“Mama, there you are!” Duck exclaimed. “Listen, I’ll explain in a minute but I need you and Barclay to follow me down to the cellar, pronto.”  
  
“Well, Aubrey and I were already on our way over there just now,” Mama said. She looked concerned, in a way that almost always meant something terrible was happening. Duck suddenly felt a whole lot less confident about his decision to leave Indrid alone.  
  
“Fantastic, let’s go,” Duck replied, already hurrying off towards the exit. “Aubrey, you know how to do some sorta healin’ type thing, dontcha?”  
  
“Healing?” Aubrey asked. “I mean, sort of? I’m definitely not that good at it…”  
  
“Yeah well I’ll take whatever you can give me,” Duck muttered. “And I really don’t mean to push it but it’d be great if we could maybe pick up the pace a little here, people.”  
  
“Duck, you’re kinda freaking me out,” Aubrey said. “‘Cause you’re acting, like, really weird, and it also sorta looks like you’ve got maybe blood all over your hands?”  
  
“I didn’t murder anybody, Aubrey,” Duck reassured, pushing the heavy wooden doors of the lobby open to let the night air bite at him. He’d left his coat with Indrid, and the transition of ‘warm lobby’ to ‘West Virginia winter night’ was not kind to his bare arms, but he hardly noticed it. “I’m actually tryina… _un _\- murder somebody, if that makes any sense. Probably doesn’t. I’m a little stressed right now.”__  
  
“Duck please don’t tell me you’ve brought in another abomination that you’re trying to fix,” Barclay muttered. Even without turning around, Duck could feel Mama’s eyes narrowing at him with suspicion. He ignored it and pressed forward, the sound of their four pairs of boots squeaking against the snow ringing in his ears.  
  
“Naw, it’s not another goat man,” Duck responded, chucking open the cellar door and descending the few stone steps to the bottom. He heard the other three follow in after him, the doors shutting behind them as he hurried over to Indrid, nervously checking him over to see if anything had somehow managed to go terribly wrong in the three or so minutes he’d been gone. Nothing appeared to be any different, for better or for worse.  
  
“Alright, buddy, I bought ya some help. You’re gonna be fine now, ya here?” Duck muttered, squeezing Indrid’s frozen left hand. Indrid didn’t respond. Duck hadn’t been expecting him to. He heard Aubrey gasp from just behind him.  
  
“Holy shit, Duck, is that…?” she trailed off, leaning in for a better look.  
  
“Yup,” Duck confirmed. “No goat men; just a moth man.”


	2. Grounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assessing and treating the damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: 'I don't know shit about medecine'

“Fuck, what happened to him?” Aubrey asked, eyeballing the various injuries littering Indrid’s body in horror. “I thought he got away?”  
  
“He got away just fine, but then he musta gotten spotted somehow ‘cause these two dipshits out in the woods shot ‘im down,” Duck explained. Aubrey winced, hissing her breath through her teeth in sympathy. Mama’s head whipped towards him.  
  
“Wait, he was seen?” She demanded. “Who saw him?”  
  
“The motherfuckers that shot ‘im, I reckon,” Duck replied. “Look, I know this whole discretion thing is super important to y’all and I promise I’ll tell ya everythin’ I know in a minute but could we maybe, I dunno, stop ‘im from dyin’ on us before all that?”  
  
“Right, yeah, of course,” Barclay muttered, nodding slightly, his eyes fixed on Indrid with something akin to disbelief. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”  
  
“Thank you,” Duck said, breathing a sigh of relief. “And uh, yeah, as far as I know, his right arm’s broken- closed fracture though, which is good- he’s got a gunshot wound just above the left hip that I don’t think hit anythin’ important but has still been bleedin’ up a storm, and I think he’s got hypothermia. I dunno if I missed anythin’ or misjudged somethin’ but… that’s what I got. Please tell me y’all know what to do ‘bout this?”  
  
“Well, that’s not… great,” Barclay began, stepping closer to the table and eyeing Indrid over. Duck tensed.  
  
“What exactly does ‘not great’ mean in this context, Barclay?” He asked. “Does that mean y’all can’t do nothin’ for ‘im? ‘Cause we can’t take ‘im to a hospital, and I gotta tell ya, I don’t know the first fuckin’ thing ‘bout gunshot wounds, so I can’t do this on my own. Like, hypothermia’s one thing but I-”  
  
“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Barclay interrupted. “Don’t worry, Duck, we’ve handled stuff like this before. Well, not exactly like this, that’d be pretty weird, but we’ve dealt with broken bones and gunshots and the like. Certainly wouldn’t consider ourselves up to hospital standards or anything like that, but we do know what we’re doing by now. I just meant that, you know, this isn’t exactly ideal.”  
  
“Oh, okay,” Duck replied. “Thank god. Uh, what, exactly, should we be doin’ first?”  
  
“Well, we should probably get him the hell out of this cellar,” Aubrey mumbled. Though she still had her sunglasses on (for some reason), Duck could tell she was side-eyeing the door to the panic room with a nervous expression. The fact that Mama was also regarding the door with a look of apprehension made Duck twitchy.  
  
“And uh, why might that be?” Duck asked. He personally would’ve also liked to get Indrid out of the cellar, but that was just because it was way too cold down here. He was getting the distinct impression that there was something else going on, and he didn’t like it.  
  
“Ummm…” Aubrey began, her voice high pitched in the way that it got when she was uncomfortable. “Well… there, uh, may or may not be some sort of… horrifying hive mind thing possessing Thacker at the moment.” Duck stared blankly at her for a moment.  
  
“You know, any other night I’d probably sit down and demand a bit of further explanation as to what the fuck it is you’re talkin’ about, but I’ll let it slide for now,” Duck responded, picking Indrid back up before turning to Barclay. “So, where we takin’ ‘im?”  
  
Barclay took a moment to respond, having been too busy shooting Mama a look that very clearly read ‘Wait, what the fuck????’, but eventually he did, tearing his eyes away from Mama and the panic room door to look back at Duck.  
  
“Right, uh… let’s just, take him up to one of the rooms, I guess. We’ve got a couple open that he could use, certainly a lot warmer than down here, so I suppose we’ll just get him set up up there and uh, see what we can do.” Mama nodded, though she did so without looking at either of them, her attention still focused on the door.  
  
“Yeah, that sounds like a good plan,” She agreed. “I think Duck’s got this place stocked pretty well so you should just grab what you need and head on up there. You gonna be alright handlin’ this one without me for a few minutes?”  
  
“Should be,” Barclay confirmed. “I can reset his arm myself, and the rest of it shouldn’t be too complicated. I mean, it really doesn’t look like the bullet did _that _much damage…”__  
  
Aubrey, who had been looking intently at Indrid’s limp form in Duck’s arms for several seconds now, took a deep, determined breath and a half step forward.  
  
“Hey, let me see him for a second,” she requested, holding her hands outstretched, her palms beginning to glow with a soft orange light- different from that of her flames, but still somehow very recognizable as hers. For a moment, Duck hesitated, subconsciously curling himself a little around Indrid. Aubrey was great, really, and Duck trusted her with his life, but… her magic was still imperfect. Seeing his hesitance, Aubrey sighed and lowered her hands.  
  
“Duck, please, I can help!” She said. “I’ve been getting a lot better with my magic, and I’m not going to try anything too complicated, I’m only gonna try and stop the bleeding; stabilize him a little. I’ve done it before, I know I can do it again, just… please let me help you.”  
  
Duck exhaled a bit of a sigh, eyeing her for a moment longer before relenting and easing up off of Indrid to give her access. She sounded so sincere, and he did see her manage something similar in the incident with that Hornet kid. He wasn’t gonna be able to get anywhere if he didn’t take help where he could get it.  
  
Aubrey smiled at him before taking another half step forward, raising her glowing palms back up and placing them, gently, onto Indrid’s side where the wound was. The ethereal orange light of her hands seemed to seep into Indrid’s skin for a moment, burning at the edges of the wound and then, much to the surprise of everyone in the room (Aubrey included), actually moving inward, leaving shiny pink skin behind it until there was nothing left but an almost perfectly circular scar on Indrid’s abdomen. The movement of it sorta reminded Duck of seeing a hole burnt into paper, but in reverse, which was probably a pretty shitty description, but hey- he had just seen one of his friends _seal a fucking bullet hole in a man’s torso _, so he was perhaps not operating at full capacity right now.__  
  
“Holy shit,” Aubrey breathed. “I did not know I could do that.”  
  
“Well… thanks!” Barclay said, dumbfounded. “I gotta tell ya, Aubrey, that just made our jobs a whole heck of a lot easier.”  
  
“Yeah, uh, no problem,” Aubrey replied, staring at her hands as if they were completely alien to her. “You guys should, um, go... get to it. Mama and I’ll head up there later.”  
  
“Sure thing,” Barclay said. “Alright Duck, let’s get going.” Barclay then made his way over to the stairs leading out of the cellar, and Duck followed, readjusting Indrid slightly so that the scrawny man was tucked closer to his chest. Hopefully that would at least somewhat abate the effects of the bitter cold outside. He made it to the foot of the stairs before turning around.  
  
“Hey, Aubrey?” Duck began. Aubrey looked up at him. “Thank you.” And with that, he climbed up the stairs and exited the cellar, Barclay thankfully having held the door open for him so he didn’t have to get creative with it again.  
  
The night outside was still just as cold as Duck had remembered it to be, so the two of them made haste to the front doors of the lodge. Actually, Duck was pretty sure he could feel Indrid shivering, which was both good and bad. Good, because it meant he was moving again, but bad because, obviously, it meant he was still really fucking cold. The warmth that poured out from the massive wooden door that Barclay held open for him was truly a blessing.  
  
A quick glance around the lobby as the door swung shut behind them revealed that, thankfully, Agent Stern was still nowhere to be seen. The French Dip Werewolf (as Duck was now referring to him) appeared to have finished his sandwich and headed off to bed, meaning that the only other person in the lobby right now was Dani, still seated over by the fireplace. She looked up upon hearing the door open and close, then promptly did a double take once she noticed the body in Duck’s arms.  
  
“Oh my god, Duck, who is that?” She asked, standing up from her seat and hastily walking over to them. “Is he hurt? What happened to him?”  
  
“Dani, I really appreciate your concern,” Barclay interrupted, “but it’s kind of a long story. Even I don’t quite know all the details yet. Right now though, we’re gonna get him set up in a room and see what we can do for him, so I actually have a favor to ask of you.”  
  
“Sure, yeah, what do you need?” Dani replied, still looking worriedly at Indrid.  
  
“We’re gonna be just down the hall- room 37- and I’d really appreciate if you could keep an eye out for us. Keep other guests away, first off, but more importantly, if Agent Stern comes back, let us know, and please, please, try to keep him away from us. Distract him, stall him, whatever, just please don’t let him walk in on us. Can you do that?” Barclay asked. Dani nodded confidently.  
  
“You got it, man,” She confirmed.  
  
“Thank you, Dani,” Barclay replied, smiling at her. “You’re a big help, you know that?”  
  
“Whatever,” she responded, though she was smiling in a distinctively self-satisfied way. “Just keep the weird glasses man from dying, I’ll watch your back, and you can sing my praises later.”  
  
With that, the two of them finally headed off down the hall, Dani taking her place in a chair facing their direction so that she could see if anyone approached the room. Barclay unlocked the door to room 37 with a small silver key he pulled from a ring on his hip.  
  
The room’s interior was, just like the rest of the lodge, done up in a cozy, Appalachian sort of rustic style, with freshly cleaned sheets tucked neatly onto a queen sized bed with log headboard. Several small, decorative pillows of soft blues and greens were arranged at the head of the bed, as well as on the similarly styled armchair over in the corner by the window, currently covered by thick, fancy looking curtains. A decent sized television hung on the wall across from the bed, just above a small fireplace that Barclay moved to light. Duck lay Indrid down on the bed, accidently bumping his hip into the small nightstand right next to it and nearly knocking over the lamp that sat there. Barclay got the fireplace to roar to life after only a moment, closing the grate before standing back up and making his way over to Duck and Indrid, locking the door as he passed it.  
  
“Alright, so,” Barclay exhaled deeply. “Aubrey… fixed the bullet wound, somehow, which is a huge help, meaning all we’ve gotta actually deal with now is the arm and the hypothermia. Now, the hypothermia is simple enough, we’ve basically just gotta keep him warm- I’ll got make him some tea once he wakes up, which should help- but the arm is… I’m gonna have to reset it, which… it isn’t gonna be pleasant, Duck, I’m not gonna lie.”  
  
“I didn’t figure it would be,” Duck said dryly. “What do you need me to do?”  
  
“Could you, uh, hold him down, I guess?” Barclay asked. “‘Cause if he wakes up and starts thrashing that’s not gonna be good for anybody. I’ll be quick about it, don’t get me wrong, but better safe than sorry, you know?”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Duck sighed. “What do you want me to do, just like, pin him?”  
  
“Not necessarily. I just need you to sort of hold his right arm down, if that makes any sense? Like, the break is in his forearm, so if you could hold down his arm above the elbow, that’d be great ‘cause that way, if he starts thrashing, it shouldn’t mess me up too terribly.”  
  
“Alright,” Duck replied, stretching Indrid’s right arm out so that it hung off the edge of the bed and taking hold of the elbow and shoulder, pinning them down securely so that only the forearm was mobile. Barclay took hold of Indrid’s forearm, grimacing and looking at Duck.  
  
“Ready when you are, Duck,” he said. Duck nodded, looking down at Indrid’s still unconscious face.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout this, Indrid,” he muttered. “Ready.”  
  
In one swift movement, Barclay tightened his hold on Indrid’s arm and twisted with the strength of, well, a bigfoot. An upsetting crunch rang out in the otherwise silent room, followed immediately by a shriek and a considerable blow to the side of Duck’s head that felt way more powerful than something someone as scrawny as Indrid should’ve been able to deal out. He was awake.  
  
“Ah, fuck,” Duck said, partially in response to the throbbing in his head, and partially in response to the situation. “Indrid, calm down, you’re okay. I know it hurts and I’m real sorry about that but we’re tryina help you out here.”  
  
“Wh- I- Duck?” Indrid stuttered, clearly disoriented.  
  
“Yeah man, it’s me, Duck. I’m right here.”  
  
“Where- where am I? What happened?”  
  
“You’re at Amnesty Lodge. You got shot by some dingbats and took a pretty heavy fall through some pine trees out there in the forest.”  
  
“Hurts” Indrid groaned. Duck felt a pang of sympathy.  
  
“Yeah, I know it hurts,” he replied. “I’m real sorry. But hey, the worst is over, right?” He turned to Barclay for confirmation, and Barclay nodded.  
  
“The actual resetting of the bone is always the worst part,” Barclay said. “Now all we’ve gotta do is get some sort of cast for ya.” At the sound of Barclay’s voice, Indrid froze.  
  
“...Barclay?” He asked, sounding incredulous. “Is that actually you?”  
  
“Yes,” Barclay replied, leaning over Duck’s shoulder so he could be seen. Indrid stared at him for a moment, and then groaned loudly, turning his head away.  
  
“Ah fuck,” he muttered, and Duck resisted the urge to snicker at the coincidental choice of words. “I’m seeing exactly zero futures in which you ever let me live this down.”  
  
“Correct,” Barclay responded, and if Duck didn’t know any better he’d swear the bearded man was smirking.  
  
“You two, uh, know each other, I take it?” Duck asked. Indrid snorted.  
  
“Something like that, yes,” he said. “We have had somewhat of a… rivalry, I suppose you could call it, going on for several years now.”  
  
“A rivalry?” Duck asked, not quite believing what he was hearing. Indrid chuckled a bit, then winced. Evidently Aubrey hadn’t been able to entirely alleviate the pain of the bullet wound.  
  
“Yes. It’s a petty thing, really-”  
  
“Only petty because you know you’re losing,” Barclay muttered. Indrid ignored him and kept talking.  
  
“A disagreement of sorts over which one of us has had more of a… cultural impact, here on earth. Obviously neither of us would like to be as well known as we are, but there is nothing we can do to change the mistakes of our past, and so we ended up trying to make a sort of competition out of our failures. Like I said; it’s stupid,” Indrid explained, though he was smiling softly.  
  
“Actually, now that we’ve got a third party here,” Barclay began. Duck’s stomach dropped. “Hey Duck, which one of us would you say has had more of a cultural impact? And please do keep in mind the fact that Bigfoot is literally, like, _the _most well known cryptid.”__  
  
“Uhhhhh….” Duck said, dumbly. He hated being put on the spot like this. Both Indrid and Barclay were looking at him expectantly, though Indrid looked considerably bemused. Fuck, dude was probably already seeing Duck practically eat his own foot trying to respond at least a hundred times over right now. Stupid future sight. “You know, I don’t, uh, I don’t see exactly how that matters right now… don’t we gotta get Indrid some sorta cast or something, for that arm? And didn’t you say somethin’ ‘bout tea earlier, Barclay?”  
  
“Duck, don’t think I can’t recognize a deflection when I see one,” Barclay said, making a face at him. “Especially when it’s done that poorly. I suppose you’re right, though. I’ll get Indrid casted up and go make y’all some tea, but we will be coming back to to this conversation later.”  
  
“Fantastic,” Duck muttered. “So, uh, how exactly are we gonna go about casting his arm? I mean, I know the basic principle of like, splints and stuff, but… what’re we doin’ here?”  
  
“Mama and I’ve got some plaster we keep around in the supply closet. Usually it’s for fixing little dents and holes in the walls- Jake ain’t always too careful with how he carries that board of his- but it can also be used to make casts if needed. So, you two sit tight for a minute, no moving that arm around, and I’ll go grab some of that. Sound good?” Barclay said.  
  
“Sounds like a plan,” Duck confirmed, nodding. Barclay stood up from his crouched position, and made it all the way over to the door before Indrid piped up.  
  
“It’s on the far left of the right hand shelf, near the back and somewhat hidden behind a half empty jug of bleach- not where you left it. I assume Mama or some other guest used it and didn’t put it back in the same place,” Indrid said.  
  
“Show off,” Barclay muttered, but it was spoken without any true venom.  
  
“Well I thought it would be better to just tell you now,” Indrid replied, grinning widely. “Otherwise it would have taken you about six minutes and a whole lot of foul language to find it.”  
  
“Like I said- show off,” Barclay repeated, before stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him with a soft click. That left just Duck and Indrid alone in the room, now silent save for the crackling of the fire in hearth nearby.  
  
“Thank you, Ranger Newton,” Indrid said after a moment, staring at the fire rather than at Duck. His face was devoid of his usual shit-eating grin, and his voice was a lot softer than Duck was used to.  
  
“Oh, it’s uh, it’s no problem,” Duck replied, a bit taken aback by the sudden mood shift. “And uh, you can call me Duck, you know- no need for formalities, at this point.” Indrid smiled, much more reserved than normal, and finally turned his head to look up at Duck.  
  
“Alright then; thank you, Duck,” he said. If Duck’s face flushed at all he blamed it on the fact that the small room was kind of stuffy, what with the fire and all.  
  
“Yeah…” Duck said, a bit at a loss for words. “I just, you know, wish I had gotten there a bit sooner.”  
  
“You had no way of knowing,” Indrid responded. “It is honestly a miracle you even found me at all.”  
  
“Yeah, but like, it’s kinda my fault, isn’t it?” Duck muttered. Indrid cocked his head, curious.  
  
“And why on earth would you think that, Duck?” He asked, genuine. “If it is in regard to the removal of my glasses then I would ask you to please keep in mind that that was really the only option given the circumstances. There was no way I could have outrun those beasts on foot- any attempts to do so would have ended in me be caught in a matter of seconds- so flight was the only chance I had at escaping. If you had not punched my glasses off, I would have removed them myself anyways.” Duck flinched a bit at that.  
  
“Well, I am also sorry about the whole ‘punching you’ thing,” he replied. “I probably could’ve just, like, told you to take your glasses off or something but, you know; heat of the moment, and all that nonsense. But no. What I meant was that I never should’ve left that goatman with you- chained up or not. It was a stupid thing to do, and I’m real sorry you got hurt because of it.”  
  
“Duck, I accepted the offer,” Indrid reminded him. “It was not as though any of you forced me to look after him.” Duck sighed.  
  
“I know, but I-”  
  
“Still feel bad about it?” Indrid said at the exact same time he did. “Well, I suppose nothing can be done about that. But if it makes you feel any better, Duck, I don’t blame you in the slightest. I’m just… very thankful, that you took the effort to save me. Twice now, actually.”  
  
“Well, yeah, man,” Duck replied, smiling slightly. “What else are friends for?”  
  
“Friends…” Indrid said the word as if it were alien to him, and for a moment Duck worried that he’d overstepped, but then Indrid smiled at him. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Also, would you mind getting up and opening the door? Barclay’s back, but his hands are full.”  
  
Duck nodded, standing up and taking his hands off of Indrid’s arm, only now realizing that he’d been effectively pinning Indrid down the entire time they’d been talking. Oops. He pulled the door open to reveal Barclay standing just behind it, his arms filled with a large plastic jar, a towel, a small-ish bowl, and several of what looked like tongue depressors. He had one leg lifted slightly in the air, as if he’d been about to try and open the door with his foot.  
  
“Oh, uh, hey Duck. Great timing,” Barclay said, clearly sort of sheepish at having been caught in such a ridiculous position. “I take it Indrid let you know I was coming?”  
  
“Again, I figured it was best to just alter the future myself instead of letting you make a fool of yourself,” Indrid responded, grinning. Barclay glared at him.  
  
“Funny how you can see things like where the plaster is in the supply closet, or when I’m gonna fuck up opening a door, but can’t see a fuckin’ bullet comin’ at you,” Barclay retorted. Indrid went silent, the smile abruptly disappearing from his face. That had been a step too far, and Barclay realized it quickly, apologizing almost immediately. “Shit, Indrid, I’m sorry,” he said. “That was too soon.”  
  
“No, no, it’s fine,” Indrid sighed. “You’re right. I appear to be on somewhat of a streak as of late when it comes to not seeing important, potentially life threatening things. You have every right to ‘talk shit’ about me for it.” The strange way in which he said the phrase ‘talk shit’, as if it were in some foreign language that he didn’t quite grasp the meaning of, made Duck snort, effectively breaking the tension.  
  
“Right, well,” Barclay began, kicking the door closed behind him and making his way back over to the bedside, with Duck following after him. “Regardless of how exactly this happened, we gotta do somethin’ about it, so, Duck; would you mind holdin’ his arm still for me?” Duck nodded, gently grabbing hold of Indrid’s arm, careful to avoid the swollen part in the middle of his forearm where the actual break was. Indrid didn’t really react, looking at Duck impassively, his eyes impossible to read behind the reflective red of his glasses.  
  
“Now, Indrid, if anything hurts, tell me, okay?” Barclay said. Indrid nodded.  
  
“Sure thing,” Indrid replied. “Oh, and make sure you don’t put the plaster on the edge of the nightstand like that, because you’re going to end up bumping into it and knocking it over, and once that happens there is about a 76% chance that the lid will come undone and it will spill everywhere, which is a mess I’m sure none of us want to deal with.” Barclay glowered at him, before pushing the tub of plaster powder away from the nightstands edge.  
  
“Better?” He asked, somewhat sarcastically.  
  
“Yes,” Indrid said.  
  
With that, Barclay began winding gauze around Indrid’s forearm, continuing until he had about a double layer of bandaging around the entire area, before stopping.  
  
“Alright, the padding’s done,” Barclay said. “Now I just need to mix up the plaster. Duck, you can set his arm down for now. Actually, wait, you know what would be great? Could you get this towel set up under his arm there? Don’t wanna get plaster everywhere.” Duck nodded, scooting the towel under Indrid’s right arm as Barclay stirred the plaster powder and water around in the bowl he’d brought with one of the tongue depressors.  
  
There was an awkward moment of silence as the three of them just sort of sat there, waiting for the plaster to be ready. At one point, Indrid began softly humming the tune of some song Duck didn’t think he’d ever heard before, the long fingers of his left hand tapping gently against the soft sheets as he stared at the ceiling, bobbing his head slightly.  
  
Applying the actual cast was… a process, to say the least. The towel turned out to have been a lifesaver, and by the time it was finally done it resembled more of a child’s failed art project than an actual medical device, but Duck supposed it would get the job done either way. Barclay looked at his handiwork and sighed.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he muttered. “I’m not exactly known for bein’ the most precise. Certainly not an artist but uh, it should work. How do you feel?”  
  
“Well…” Indrid began, still staring at the ceiling. He sounded troubled. “My arm feels… fine, I suppose, and my side is painful- though nowhere near as bad as it used to be- but something… something feels… wrong. Something hurts, bad, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.” Barclay’s eyebrows furrowed.  
  
“Could you elaborate?” He asked. “That doesn’t exactly give me a whole lot to go on. Like, where does it hurt?”  
  
“I- I can’t quite… tell?” Indrid replied. He was starting to sound stressed out. “It’s… it’s sort of like, my back, but also… not? I don’t- I don’t know! But something feels wrong! Something feels really, really wrong!” He was starting to breathe a lot heavier, his voice cracking in a way Duck had never heard it do before.  
  
“Okay, it’s okay, calm down, Indrid,” Duck said, placing one hand on the man’s boney shoulder and feeling it rise and fall rapidly beneath his grasp. “Just breathe, man, alright? Deep breaths,” thankfully, Indrid heeded his advice, his breathing beginning to even out after a moment.  
  
“S-sorry,” he muttered. “I'm not normally one to lose control like this.”  
  
“No shame in it,” Duck reassured. “You’ve got every right to be upset, Indrid, you got shot. If I were you I’d prolly be cursin’ up a blue streak right ‘bout now.” Indrid smiled shakily at him, and Duck smiled back. “Now, alright, let’s take this slow. You said that somethin’ still hurts real bad, right?” Indrid nodded. “And you said it’s like your back, but also… not, right?” Indrid nodded again.  
  
“I really don’t know how else to explain it,” Indrid said.  
  
“No, it’s alright,” Duck replied. “Uh, Barclay? You got any ideas?” Barclay looked just as confused as he did, merely shrugging, and Duck took that as a ‘no’. Well, shit. “Let’s see… back, but not. Back… but, not…” Duck muttered to himself. It took him maybe about another 12 seconds of bafflement before a sudden realization hit him, feeling as though someone had just poured ice water down the back of his shirt.  
  
“Hey, uh, Indrid?” Duck began. He really, really hoped he wasn’t right about this. “Would you mind maybe slippin’ off your glasses for a sec?”  
  
“Slipping off my-” Indrid started to repeat the question, as if not quite understanding it, before he suddenly froze, his skin growing paler, as if he’d just seen something horrible. Duck’s stomach continued its rapid descent towards his feet. With slow, shaking hands, Indrid slipped his glasses off of his boney face, his form abruptly shifting back into the large, insectoid being that Duck had first spotted in the woods that night. Big, bushy antennae sat atop a rounded head, where gigantic red eyes peeked out from above the plush fluff that covered Indrid’s upper torso, like a fur trim on a particularly expensive coat. That same fluff lay in small patches on Indrid’s forearms and shins (though one of those patches was hidden by the cast atop it), as well as a much larger patch around his hips. And on his back…  
  
“Upper left, towards the middle,” Indrid whispered, his voice trembling. Duck’s eyes traced over the massive pair of wings folded up on Indrid’s back- brown, with small streaks of cream and black and what may have even been pink- moving up and over towards the area that Indrid had just named. It didn’t take long to find it.  
  
“Oh no,” Barclay said softly, evidently having spotted the problem at around the same time Duck did.  
  
There was a sizeable chunk torn clean out of Indrid’s wing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3
> 
> Well, who saw this coming. 
> 
> Probably a lot of you. I'm not exactly subtle.


	3. Overload

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking it in
> 
> (Just gonna warn y'all ahead of time that Indrid had a bit of an episode at the beginning here so warnings for disassociation and anxiety attack type shit, since I know some people aren't real big fans of reading about that stuff.)

Indrid was silent.  
  
He could hear Duck and Barclay beside him, speaking in the hiss of a whisper with just a bit too much force put behind it, but whether they were speaking to themselves or to him, he could not tell. Not that it would have mattered, either way, for Indrid understood none of what they were saying.  
  
It was not an issue with his hearing- Indrid’s hearing was incredible. He could hear the whoosh of the smoke escaping up the chimney away from the crackling flames below it. He could hear the slight groaning of the wood in the windowsill as the cold forced it to contract and settle. He could hear the sound of another one of the lodge’s residents in the room just above them roll over in their sleep, as well as the rustle of the blankets disturbed by their movements. He could hear his own blood rushing through his body, his heart continuously thumping at a rate much higher than average. And yes, he could hear the voices beside him, sibilating syllables echoing throughout the numerous tympanic membranes he had in this form, the pitch and cadence rising and falling in such a way that he knew it to be English, yet he could derive no more meaning from this sound than he could from the garble of static.  
  
Static.  
  
All the televisions in his head had turned to static, a searing blare of oscillating white and black that burned itself into his eyes, unable to be driven away by squeezing his lids shut because the static was on the wrong side of his vision, the part he couldn’t will away into nothingness by simply closing the shutters. The call was coming from inside the house, he chuckled, though it sounded more like he was choking. There was no call, not this time. He was usually the one who did the calling. The calling from the phone in his RV, he called Duck, Duck answered, but his voice was just static. The call was coming from inside the house. The static was coming from inside his head. He couldn’t get away from it. He couldn’t get away. He’d never be able to get away.  
  
Something touched him, resting near the area that was most approximately his shoulder, and his skin crawled beneath the contact like the legs of a thousand little bugs. Bugs? He was a bug, wasn’t he? Yes, a moth. A big moth. A big moth with a hand that did not belong to him laying upon his skin and sending the legs of many smaller bugs to scratch across his body. He did not want them there. They didn’t hurt- no, no, they did not hurt- but they itched and they crawled and they crept and he did not want them there. He tried to tell them that, to ask them kindly to please pull away and leave him be, but he could not speak for his voice had turned to static. All that came out was a sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper and a shriek but nowhere near a word.  
  
The static was screaming now, and he moved to cover his ears (as if that would help him) but in this form he had no one, distinct set of ears. There was too much of him. There was too much in general.  
  
He crammed his glasses back up onto his face, jabbing himself with the arms of his disguise as he fumbled sightlessly, refusing to open his eyes. The static behind them was enough to blind him- he did not want to face what lay on the other side. The shift from his sylvan form to his human one made him want to cry, both from relief and not-relief at the same time. He felt much less in this form than in his other, but though it may have been less it was still far, far too much.  
  
The hand on his shoulder rather jerkily retreated, as if it had been pulled away, and he breathed a brief sigh of relief as the bugs went away with it. The whispering had stopped as well- another relief- and he heard only the sound of soft footsteps, the gentle click of a door closed slowly, and then nothing else but the steady crackle of the fire and the wind’s distant moaning. Indrid took a deep, shaky breath. And then another. And then another, until he finally started to feel just a little more grounded. He was in a room at Amnesty Lodge. He was injured. Duck had helped him. Duck.... where was Duck, anyhow?  
  
The concept of trying to glance at any potential futures right now threatened to send him overboard again, so Indrid settled for the far more mundane solution of simply opening his eyes and going from there. To his great relief, all of the lights in the room had been shut off, leaving only the far softer flicker of the fireplace to illuminate the room, which was- apart from himself- empty. A quick scan of the area revealed a note, placed on the bedside table directly next to him. It was written on what appeared to be one of those sheets of paper that waiter’s take down orders on, with a brief, hastily scrawled message written in black ink upon it. The note read:  
  
“ _Indrid-_  
  
_Could see you needed a moment to breathe, so stepped out. When ready, just let me know, I’m right outside. ___  
  
_-Duck” ___  
  
A slight smile played itself upon Indrid’s lips. Ranger Newton- ever so considerate.  
  
He figured, at the very least, that he should let Duck know he was doing better, but quickly discovered that words still appeared to be beyond him at the moment. Indrid huffed in frustration. He never knew why this happened to him, but sometimes it just did, and he hated it. Normally, it was less of an issue- given he lived alone most of his life- but in the times that he just so happened to be around other people it was downright humiliating. He felt like he was a caterpillar again- forced to rely on gestures and short, nonverbal bursts to try and communicate his thoughts to an increasingly irritated audience. Only difference was that folks tended to have a significantly more patience for this sort of behavior when he was a caterpillar than they did when he was full grown, often believing him stupid or incompetent for his shortcomings. Sighing in resignation, Indrid simply chucked the capped pen he found on his nightstand at the door with his left hand, hoping that would be enough to get the message across.  
  
The pen hit the door with a clack, and no sooner had it fallen to the carpeted floor than Duck Newton was there, gently easing the door open and closing it behind him, making his way over to sit in the chair that still rested by Indrid’s bedside. The look on Duck’s face was… well, Indrid had never been very good at reading people’s faces, but it didn’t look immediately bad, so that was something.  
  
“Hey, Indrid,” Duck greeted, his voice soft. “How’re ya feelin’? Wait, that’s a dumb question. You’re probably feelin’ pretty shitty, huh? But like, you know what I meant.” Indrid just stared at him, trying to formulate some way of responding. He would try writing it down, if it weren’t for the fact that he had just chucked the only writing utensil in the room at a door 3 seconds ago.  
  
As if somehow sensing his plight, Duck’s brows furrowed.  
  
“Can you talk right now?” He asked. Again, Indrid was far from the best judge of these things but… Duck didn’t look or sound particularly judgemental, so…  
  
With a fair deal of shame, Indrid shook his head. Great Sylvain, this was stupid. He should have grown out of this ridiculous behavior during pupation, just like everyone had said he would, but he hadn’t.  
  
“Oh, alright then,” Duck said. “It’s okay, man, I get it. Uh, let’s see… are you warm enough?”  
  
Indrid did an odd sort of shrug-nod, praying to the forces that be that Duck would understand that. While he was by no means still freezing to death, which was a plus, he still would benefit greatly from a few extra degrees of warmth in here.  
  
“Noted. I’ll see if we’ve got any space heaters or anythin’ lyin’ ‘round here. Should be able to hook you up just fine. Does you arm feel alright?”  
  
Indrid just gave him a look, and Duck chuckled a bit, humorlessly.  
  
“Yeah, stupid question. ‘Course it doesn’t. But, like, does it feel… shit, man, I dunno… extra shitty? Like, ‘we need to fix somethin’ else’ level of shitty? Or is it just like, regular sorta ‘I broke my arm’ level of shitty? Uh, nod for ‘regular shitty’, shake your head for ‘extra shitty’.”  
  
Indrid thought for a moment, then nodded. Duck breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
“Alright, good. That’s good. Well, I mean, it ain’t like, good, but… you know. Are you hungry? Want me to bring in some food or somethin’?”  
  
Indrid shook his head no almost immediately. Just the thought of actually trying to eat right now was making him nauseous.  
  
“Okay, that’s fair,” Duck muttered. “What ‘bout to drink? ‘Cause Barclay said he was gonna go and make ya some tea, try an’ warm ya up a lil bit, but if you ain’t feelin’ up to it you don’t have to force yourself or nothin’. You think you can drink anythin’ right now?”  
  
Indrid considered it for a moment before slowly nodding his head, which earned him a smile from Duck.  
  
“Great!” Duck said. “That should really help. Uh, would you be more comfortable if I left?”  
  
That one took Indrid a moment. Did he want Duck to leave? Normally, he would say that yes, yes he would want anyone else in the room to go away. He hated being seen like this- always felt ashamed of himself and scrutinized and weak- but oddly enough, he felt none of those same emotions in relation to Duck. Thinking wryly to himself that this man truly was a real curveball of a human being, Indrid shook his head no. No, he did not want Duck to leave.  
  
“Okay, got it. I’ll stick around,” Duck replied, not seeming at all upset or inconvenienced by the request, even though Indrid knew for a fact that the man was very busy. “Do ya want me to be quiet?”  
  
Indrid shook his head no again. Duck was nice to listen to.  
  
“Alright then, uh, anythin’ in particular you wanna talk ‘bout, or…?”  
  
Again, a shake of the head. To his surprise, Indrid found himself holding back a smile at the sight of the big awkward grin Duck shot him in that moment, the ranger’s hand reaching up to scratch at the back of his own neck in thought.  
  
“Well, uh…” Duck began, chuckling a bit. He seemed somewhat nervous, but not uncomfortable- more like he just wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. “Have I ever told ya ‘bout my cat?”  
  
Indrid shook his head no. He knew that Duck had a cat, yes, but the ranger had never really mentioned said feline to him during the handful of interactions they’d had over the past few days. It made sense, of course, as all of those interactions had pertained to the various life-threatening circumstances they kept finding themselves in- a topic which did not lend itself easily to a transition into discussing one’s pets- but he found himself almost wishing that they had as Duck beamed, clearly excited. By now, Indrid had decidedly lost the battle against the smile on his own face.  
  
“Aw man, okay, so, her name’s Toast,” Duck started. Indrid snorted, unable to help himself, and Duck blushed a bit. “Yeah, yeah, I know- kinda weird name for a cat and all that. Uh, technically it’s short for, uh, ‘Toasted Marshmallow’-” Indrid wheezed, and Duck laughed along with him. He had a very nice laugh. “Bit of a, uh, long story there, on that one…” he trailed off, but Indrid hastily spun his left hand around in the air in what he was pretty sure was the human gesture for ‘go on’.  
  
Evidently he had not gotten his hand signals mixed up again, (he had done that once, back in the 70s: confused the signal for ‘peace’ with the signal for something far more lewd. It was his mistake for not looking ahead on that one and double checking whether it was supposed to be one or two fingers, but in his defense, he had no reason to think that that man would respond as violently as he did), for Duck chuckled a bit.  
  
“You wanna hear it?” An enthusiastic nod. “Well alright then, here goes:  
  
“‘Bout two or three years ago my coworker, Juno- you know her; she’s the one we stopped from gettin’ killed on the funicular and all that- sweet talked me into headin’ on down to the shelter. Said somethin’ ‘bout me bein’ uh, and I’m gonna paraphrase here, but; “sad an’ lonely”- which was a load of hooey, but there ain’t no talkin’ down Juno once she gets her mind set on somethin’- and said that if I wasn't gonna get a date, I might as well go ‘head and get a pet so I don’t die alone. Her words, not mine. But anyways, she dragged me on down to that shelter one day, and I’ll tell ya, Indrid- I went in there with absolutely no intention of actually doin’ what she wanted me to do. I was just gonna take a look around the place so she’d finally get up off my ass ‘‘bout it, then leave and go back to doin’ my own thing, you know?”  
  
Indrid nodded, both to show that yes, he was listening, and to indicate that yes, he did indeed know the feeling of agreeing to do something with no actual intention of doing it. That was actually a pretty decent summary of about 90% of his non-future-seeing-based interactions with other people.  
  
“Anyway though so we get in there, and right as soon as I walk in there’s this cat, see? Just sittin’ right there in one of the crates, and kinda lookin’ at me. She’s pretty small- probably ‘bout a year or so old, I dunno- with these big blue eyes and really fluffy looking white fur. But here’s the thing- her fur isn’t all white. At like, the tips of her ears and her tail, a bit on her face, and on her paws, she’s got like this orange-ish brown color. Now, I dunno if I was just hungry at the time or whatever, but I saw her sittin’ there, and I just blurted out: “Marshmallow Cat!” without even meanin’ to say it,” Duck started laughing at the memory, and Indrid too found himself chuckling a bit at the image.  
  
“Now Juno laughed at me, of course, and we walked ‘round the whole place but the entire time I was thinkin’ ‘bout that cat. Next thing I knew, I was fillin’ out some paperwork and then bam: I had a cat. At first I wanted to name ‘er somethin’, I dunno, _fancy _, I guess? Like, I debated the name ‘Azalea’ for a while, along with a couple others more along that line, but no matter what names I thought up, nothin’ really seemed to fit. I just kept lookin’ at ‘er and only bein’ able to think ‘bout marshmallows. Toasted marshmallows, specifically, ‘cause of the uh, you know, brown patches and all that, and I guess it just sorta stuck. ‘Toasted Marshmallow’ was a bit of a long name though, so I ended up shortenin’ it down to just ‘Toast’, and then one day, I was eatin’ some toast, and this little monster snuck up onto the counter and swiped some. I’d only had ‘er for ‘bout a week at this point, and I still didn’t know shit ‘bout cats, so I ‘bout lost my goddam mind thinkin’ I’d poisoned ‘er somehow- went rushin’ on down to the vet in a total panic like; “This dipshit just ate a buncha bread how do you pump a cat’s stomach?”” That image in particular- a harried Duck bursting into an unsuspecting vets office with a probably very confused cat in his arms- made Indrid wheeze, and Duck beamed at him.__  
  
“Yeah, it wasn’t great,” Duck continued. “She was fine an’ all, but my god, Indrid; I felt horrible. I thought I’d managed to kill my cat before I even named ‘er. But yeah. She turned out to be perfectly fine, and was officially christened ‘Toast’- in honor of both her looks, and the heart attack she nearly gave me. She’s still a little shit, but I love ‘er. I think you would like ‘er a lot- maybe you should meet ‘er some time!”  
  
“I… I would like that,” Indrid replied. His voice was quiet, and certainly a lot croakier than he would have preferred, but he was still pleased that it had returned at all. As was Duck, if the practically glowing smile he received for his words was any indication.  
  
“Hell yeah, man!” Duck said. He looked like he was going to continue, but a gentle knock on the door interrupted him.  
  
“Uh, Indrid?” Came Barclay’s voice, “Are you feeling any better? I bought tea, if you, uh, wanted any. You should probably have at least something to drink. If tea doesn’t sound good I could always just get you some water, or juice, or uh, eggnog, I guess. I know you like eggnog. I don’t actually know if we have eggnog right now though… Uh, hey Dani-”  
  
“Barclay just come on in here,” Duck interrupted, a fact for which Indrid was grateful.  
  
The door cracked open, letting a sliver of golden light from the hallway creep across the room, interrupted by the looming shadow of a rather sheepish looking Barclay holding a tea tray. He slipped in quickly, shutting the door behind him and making his way over to set the small tray down on the nightstand next to Indrid and Duck. He cleared his throat a little awkwardly.  
  
“So, uh, Indrid,” he began. “You… look like you’re doing better. Are you… doing better?”  
  
“A bit, yes,” Indrid replied, doing his best to keep his voice as level and normal-sounding as possible. Barclay was not a judgemental man- far from it- but Indrid still wasn’t terribly comfortable with the idea of being vulnerable around him. Or, anybody, preferably. Duck was… Duck was an exception, somehow.  
  
“Oh, good!” Barclay said, perking up a little. “That’s great to hear! Uh, hold on a second.”  
  
The sight of Barclay pouring tea was one that Indrid would never cease to find at least somewhat amusing. While it was certainly a lot funnier in his true form, even when disguised as a human, Barclay was a very large man, with very large hands, so the image of him delicately grabbing hold of the small, porcelain teapot with only three of his massive fingers and very carefully pouring a peach scented tea into even smaller porcelain cups was an entertaining one. Part of what made the whole thing so enjoyable to Indrid was the fact both he and Barclay were very much aware of the fact that there were plenty of tea sets large enough so as to not cause these difficulties, but none of them had the particular aesthetic that Barclay found so charming about these smaller ones, and so the larger man was intentionally choosing to work with too-small equipment, purely because he liked the way it looked.  
  
“Here you go!” Barclay said, offering Indrid one of the cups. Indrid smiled softly as he took it, delighted at the feeling of the heat that seeped off of the cup and into his skin. He took a moment to admire the intricate floral pattern painted on the object’s surface. He could see why Barclay liked these sets so much, even if they were a bit of a hassle for him.  
  
“Thank you, Barclay,” Indrid said, “It smells wonderful.”  
  
“Yeah, no kiddin’!” Duck said, inhaling deeply. “What is this? Smells like peaches!”  
  
“Well, that’s exactly what it is- peach tea!” Barclay replied, looking rather pleased at the praise. “I know Indrid likes fruit, so I figured a fruit flavor would go over pretty well.”  
  
“Dang, you two sure do know a lot ‘bout each other, dontcha?” Duck said. Indrid and Barclay glanced at each other for a moment.  
  
“I… suppose we do, yes,” Indrid said slowly. “I’d never really thought about it, to be honest, but I guess it would make sense that after knowing each other for close to 70 years now, we would have picked up a few things.”  
  
“70 years?!” Duck blurted. “Damn that’s a long time. I mean, maybe not for y’all, since you guys seem to live a whole heck of a lot longer than we do but like… dang.” Barclay chuckled.  
  
“Yeah, believe me, Duck, the whole ‘time’ thing still gets me sometimes, too,” Barclay said. “Like, I’ll be talkin’ to somebody around town and they’ll tell me they’re like, 30 or somethin’, and my gut reaction will be like “holy shit what?!” before I remember that oh yeah, that’s an adult age for a human. It takes a whole lotta getting used to, I’ll tell ya that much.”  
  
“How old are you two, anyway?” Duck asked, taking a tentative sip of his tea.  
  
“Well, Barclay’s about… 488, I think,” Indrid began, “and I’m somewhere around 457? I’ll be honest with you, Duck; it can be a bit hard to tell here on Earth. Your calendar is far different from ours, and there are no real points of reference that line up closely enough between Earth and Sylvain that would allow us to keep track otherwise, so it is always an estimation, but yes- somewhere around 488 and 457 years old, respectively. Are you alright?” Duck, who had snorted tea up his nose when Indrid had said “488” and been coughing the entire rest of the time, waved his hand.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, no, I’m alright man, I’m alright, I just… damn. You’re 457 fuckin’ years old?!” Duck asked, staring at Indrid in disbelief.  
  
“Something within that range, yes,” Indrid replied.  
  
“Well shit,” Duck laughed. “Coulda fooled me. You don’t look a day over 30.” Normally, Indrid would have been rather insulted to be told that he looked like an infant, but something about the way Duck said it actually made him flush a little.  
  
“Yes, well,” Indrid muttered, clearing his throat. “We age quite differently.” There was a good humored silence for a moment, laughter slowly fading before the grin on Barclay’s face disappeared, shifting into something far more serious and taking with it the atmosphere of the room.  
  
“Listen,” Barclay began, his voice now devoid of its earlier joviality. “I really, really hate to be the one to ruin the moment here, but we’re gonna have to talk about… _it _, and the longer we put it off, odds are the worse it’s gonna get.” Indrid’s mood plummeted, and he breathed in shakily.__  
  
“Ah, yes,” he said. “That.” Duck looked at him, brow furrowed, placing his cup down on the nightstand and leaning in- enough so that it was clear he was engaged, but not so much that it encroached on Indrid’s personal space and made him nervous.  
  
“Indrid, if ya need another minute or two that’s perfectly fine,” Duck said. Barclay opened his mouth as if to protest, but Duck shot him a look- effectively cutting him off- before returning his attention back to Indrid. “You’ve had a real shit day, man-”  
  
“I’ll say,” Indrid muttered, letting out a brief burst of a laugh that carried with it no humor whatsoever.  
  
“Yeah, it’s been horrible,” Duck continued. “And absolutely nobody in this room would judge you if you said ya needed some time before jumpin’ right into another fuckin’ ordeal, alright? There’s no sense in havin’ ya get overwhelmed and add another load of shit to the already steamin’ pile that has been your day, ya hear me? So yeah, we do need to address this, but we’ll do it whenever you’re ready, and not a moment before that, okay?” Indrid nodded slowly, taking another deep breath before replying.  
  
“I… appreciate your concern, Duck. Truly, I do, but I’m afraid I must agree with Barclay’s suggestion that we… handle this, as soon as possible,” Indrid said, his left hand unconsciously reaching up to grab at his shoulder, just about where his wings would’ve begun had he been in his true form.  
  
“You sure?” Duck asked, and it was a genuine question rather than a statement of doubt.  
  
“Yes, I am,” Indrid replied, and Duck nodded a little.  
  
“Alright then,” Duck said, “do you want me to back up a little?”  
  
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Indrid said. While he didn’t mind Duck’s proximity nearly as much as he would’ve minded it from practically anyone else, Indrid still wasn’t super comfortable with the idea of changing forms while anybody was that close to him, especially a human.  
  
“You know I don’t,” Duck replied, leaning back so that he was a far distance away. “Whenever you’re ready, Indrid.”  
  
With one last trembling exhale, Indrid slid his glasses back off of his face. The transformation was instantaneous, as always, and the shift in sensory ability was just as jarring as ever, threatening to reawaken the migraine that had been lurking at the back of his head for nearly the entire time now. Extending his left wing sent a spike of pain down his spine that made him wince, but he powered through it. He’d had worse. Hell, he’d had worse today. But he’d never had anything near as bad as… he didn’t want to look. The mirror was right across from him, but he kept his compound eyes fixed firmly on the sheets below him because he didn’t want to see it again. Seeing it in the future had been bad enough, but seeing it in the present would make it real and pathetic as it was he wasn’t ready for that yet.  
  
Speaking of which, he really should get back to looking at the future. He hadn’t so much as glanced away from the present in what must’ve been hours now, and that was already incredibly dangerous. To continue ignoring it any longer would be not only foolish but perilous and an active endangerment to those around him. This was his duty. He had been given the gift of future sight and it was his responsibility to use it. To do otherwise would make him a failure.  
  
But sweet Sylvain, he didn’t want to. He knew that was utterly pathetic and he hated himself for it but… but he just… he just _couldn’t _right now. Everything was already way too much as it was, and that was without the added input of hundreds of potential futures streaming into his brain, all simultaneously demanding attention and focus that he just did not currently possess.__  
  
This was stupid. He was stupid. He had to do it. He was just making excuses at this point. He was just going to have to suck it up, tough it out, do what he was supposed to do, and stop fucking complaining about it. He was supposed to have grown out of this. He was supposed to be better than this, dammit. He was supposed to be-  
  
“Indrid?” Duck’s voice cut through his thoughts, and it was only then that Indrid realized he had begun to curl in on himself. “Just breathe. You’re gonna be alright. I know this sucks major ass right now but trust me man; soon this’ll all be just some really shitty memory that you can look back on and go: “wow, that sucked”, before you get back to goin’ on with your life, and that’s all it’s gonna be, okay?”  
  
“Thank you, Duck,” Indrid said quietly. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, the long, spindly fingers of his left hand had wound up entwined with Duck’s, and he felt shame burning in the back of his mind over how creeped out Duck must have been at the moment, but until the ranger pulled away, he was going to enjoy it while it lasted. It felt nice to have that point of contact. It was grounding, comforting in a way he couldn’t quite describe, and he wasn’t about to end it any sooner than it had to be ended.  
  
“It’s no problem, Indrid, I mean it,” Duck said. “Listen, if I’m being entirely honest with you- and you know I am ‘cause I can’t lie for shit- I don’t know how to fix this. I’ve got no experience whatsoever, and I don’t reckon you do either, but I promise you, Indrid; I’m gonna try. Whatever I can do, I’ll do my best. One way or another, this’ll all work out somehow. I figure you of all people would know that.”  
  
“You would be right, Duck,” Indrid replied. “Normally, I would actually disagree with you. I’d tell you that the future more often than not goes down a path that’s far less fortuitous than anyone would’ve liked, but you, Duck Newton, have proved that particular theory wrong several times now,” Duck snorted, and indeed Indrid felt a bit of a smile coming on himself. “So, I trust you Duck. And you too, Barclay,” he added, “you’re also very helpful.” Barclay made a grunting noise that could’ve been a laugh.  
  
“Yeah, Indrid, I uh… _shit _, man,” Barclay muttered. “I’ve never seen anythin’ like this. I mean, it’s not bleedin’ or nothin’, which is definitely good but like; I don’t know what to do with this. Is it one of those thing that’ll heal on its own or…?” He didn’t finish that sentence. He didn’t need to.__  
  
“I don’t know either,” Indrid said softly. “This may surprise you to learn, but I have never been shot before,” Duck made a noise as though he’d been about to laugh but then quickly stifled it. “I have no idea. I know that on Earth, the wings of moths do not possess any real ability to heal once damaged but I have no idea whether or not that rule would carry over to me. After all, there are many differences between myself and your average Earth moth,” Duck definitely laughed at that one, and his smile was so contagious that even in this otherwise very grim moment Indrid found himself grinning. “For starters, I am far more handsome.”  
  
“Yes, yes you are,” Duck said, and Indrid was suddenly very glad that the symptoms of being flustered were not anything so easily recognizable as blushing in this form. “Also a bit bigger, too.”  
  
“Just a bit,” Indrid agreed. “More seriously, however, what I said was true; I have no idea how well my wings will be able to heal, or even if they will be able to heal at all. I don’t think that a process as slow as healing would be something I could easily check with a glance to the future, so I suppose this is one of those scenarios in which we will just have to wait and see.”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Barclay sighed. “I mean, I’ll consult with Mama and all but I highly doubt she’ll have any more in the way of answers than I do. In the meantime though, why don’t you try and get some rest? Can’t hurt.”  
  
“Not as far as you know,” Indrid replied without even entirely meaning to, and Barclay glared at him.  
  
“Indrid, I’m tryina be serious here,” Barclay said. “Could we maybe drop the whole ‘clairvoyant smart-ass’ thing for like, five minutes?”  
  
“Yes, sorry,” Indrid said, somewhat sheepishly. “Old habits.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Barclay replied, sounding decidedly unamused. “I’m gonna leave now. Got a few things I need to discuss with Mama and all that. If ya need anythin’, just holler. I would tell ya where to find me and all that, but I get the sense that’d be somewhat redundant, given you were able to describe to me the exact layout of the fuckin’ supply closet.” And with that, Barclay left, taking the tea tray with him and leaving only Duck and Indrid in the room. A few moments of silence passed before either one of them said anything.  
  
“Okay, so uh…” Duck began, “this might sound like a really weird question, but I figured I’d at least ask, you know? Just so like I’ve covered all my bases, and all that. But I don’t want you to be offended, or nothin’! I’m certainly not implyin’ anythin’, and I definitely don’t mean it to be inappropriate at all, but like, I just feel the need to at least make the offer, even if it’s not necessary, just ‘cause like-”  
  
“Duck,” Indrid interrupted. “I am not going to judge you. Whatever question you may ask me, I can assure you that it is far from the weirdest thing I have ever heard.”  
  
“Right,” Duck said, looking sheepish. “I, uh… do you want me to stick around? ‘Cause I definitely could, wouldn’t be no trouble for me. ‘Course if you don’t want me to that’s perfectly fine also, I just-”  
  
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Indrid interrupted again, though this time decidedly not looking at Duck as he talked. “I would… appreciate your company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To elaborate on Indrid's whole episode, it was a combination of a couple of things. Panic attack, for one, with overstimulation and a bit of disassociation layered on top. My boy's having a real rough go of it, but it'll get better. 
> 
> Maybe.


	4. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Bullshit of 2019  
> They talk a bunch. Bonding time.

Duck Newton was qualified for a great many things- far more, in fact, than most people would probably given him credit for. This was most definitely not one of those things, and that fact was becoming increasingly apparent with each passing second.  
  
How could he not have noticed? The guy’s wings were fucking huge- you’d think he would’ve noticed something as obvious as a giant tear through one of them, especially considering the fact that he’d basically been right up on Indrid when he’d first found him out there in the woods. He’d seen the full mothiness, and yet somehow neglected to see the huge hole in one of what were arguably the Mothman’s most eye-catching features. He was an idiot, plain and simple.  
  
Granted, he wasn’t sure what exactly he would’ve done differently if he had noticed it- even Indrid didn’t seem to have any idea what to do with it- but still. He could’ve done something, right?  
  
It didn’t help that by now Barclay probably thought he was a right pushy dickhead. Duck would be the first to acknowledge that he’d been a bit overly forceful in yanking Barclay’s hand off of Indrid’s shoulder, especially considering the fact that Barclay was the one with actual medical experience here, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He knew it was probably wrong to inject his own personal thoughts and experiences into the situation as he had absolutely no bearing in the realm of what the fuck was going on. Indrid was a future-seeing moth-person from another planet who was literally 411 years older than him- Duck had no right to compare himself to him, and yet…  
  
And yet he’d recognized Indrid’s behavior, because it was his own. He saw himself in the oddly stiff and jerky way Indrid began moving, as if he were a puppet with a distracted handler. He saw himself in the rigidity that overtook Indrid’s body as Barclay laid a concerned hand on his shoulder- the clear discomfort with the presence combined with the current inability to actually do anything about it. The feeling of being trapped, overwhelmed, with no real way of getting away from it all.  
  
In the right breast pocket of his faded flannel, Barclay had one of those waiter’s notepads and a single black ballpoint pen. Duck had seized both of those, jerking Barclay’s hand off of Indrid in the process, and quickly scrawled a note upon the back of the uppermost sheet of paper. He would’ve written it on the front were it not for the fact that the words: “french dip sandwich, on the rarer side of cooked, side of mashed potatoes & gravy” written in Barclay’s neat, blocky handwriting, were already taking up a fair portion of the space. So instead, he’d flipped the sheet over, hastily jotted down his note to Indrid, dropped it on the night stand along with the pen, then ushered himself and Barclay out the door as quietly as possible.  
  
Barclay hadn’t seemed terribly upset at his behavior, which was a relief, and had instead been more confused, asking Duck what exactly had just happened and whether or not he knew what was going on with Indrid. Duck had explained it briefly as being ‘kind of like a migraine’, which, while not technically true, was an explanation he’d found to be a lot more quickly understood and accepted than ‘overstimulation’, which was what he had guessed Indrid’s issue to be. In Duck’s experience, it wasn’t necessarily that people tended to be rude about it so much as that they tended to have no real basis as to what it was, and actually trying to explain it could be a process. His particular favorite interaction on the topic involved having to spend several minutes explaining to a co-worker that no, it was not ‘some sort of sex thing’- this was a different meaning of the term. Just saying ‘migraine’ saved a lot of time and energy that was better spent doing literally anything else, and so he did.  
  
Luckily, Barclay hadn’t pressed him on it, instead just hissing through his teeth in sympathy and nodding a bit, before excusing himself to go make some tea for the three of them and leaving Duck standing in the hallway by himself. The conversation with Indrid that came after he invited Duck back in via pen toss was probably just further proof that Duck had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He himself didn’t go nonverbal, (at least, not in his experience), but he’d seen it in other people before, so he hadn’t been too taken aback at Indrid’s sudden lack of speech. Instead, he’d devolved into talking about his cat for several minutes until Barclay came back. Incredible. A man is grievously wounded, and in a mental state where he’s not fully capable of responding, and Duck forces him to listen to at least six minutes worth of cat stories. Doctor of the year, everybody.  
  
The conversation with Barclay and Indrid (after Indrid started talking again), went about as well as Duck had been expecting it to, (though granted, he certainly hadn’t been expecting the whole ‘both of the people in the room with you are over 400 years old’ reveal), ending in the grand conclusion that absolutely nobody had the slightest idea of what to do here. Which brings us to the current moment, in which the room’s population once again consists of just Duck and Indrid, the latter of whom had just accepted the former’s offer to stick around.  
  
If Duck was being completely honest, he hadn’t expected to get this far. He’d been pretty sure that Indrid would’ve decided he’d had enough company for the day and declined Duck’s invitation to stay. Now, Duck’s surprise at having been proven wrong was a pleasant one, yes, but he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do now. Really hadn’t thought ahead on this one.  
  
“Unless, of course, you happen to be busy,” Indrid said, snapping Duck out of his thoughts. “I’d certainly understand if you-”  
  
“No!” Duck interrupted, “No, no, it’s all good. I just, uh… ain’t exactly sure… what I’m supposed to do now, ya know?” He laughed a bit nervously. “Like, do ya wanna turn the TV on or somethin’ like that? I could ask Barclay if they’ve got any movies or anythin’ lyin’ ‘round here…”  
  
“I would prefer the television remain off,” Indrid replied. “I’ve never been a real fan, to tell you the truth. It’s always too… bright. And loud, but it’s more so the brightness than the noise that bothers me. Artificial lights in general don’t get along too well with me.”  
  
“Well, that makes sense,” Duck said. “‘Cause of the whole, ya know, moth thing.” Indrid stared at him.  
  
“You know, Duck, there are many who would find that comment to be racist,” Indrid said blandly, and Duck blanched.  
  
“Oh shit, Indrid, I’m real sorry!” Duck immediately began apologizing. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by it, honest! I- I didn’t know-” Indrid was laughing.  
  
“It’s alright, Duck,” Indrid interrupted, chuckling. “I was joking. Well, not entirely- something like that would certainly earn you your fair share of glares in Sylvain- but I take no offense to it. Besides; you are quite right in suggesting that my issues with artificial light stem, at least in part, from my lepidopteric ancestry.”  
  
“Lepida what now?”  
  
“Lepidopteric,” Indrid repeated. “Lepidoptera is the scientific name for ‘moth’.”  
  
“Ah, cool!” Duck said. “I’ve never heard that word before. Guess I’ll have to try and bust that one out next time I’m playin’ scrabble.”  
  
“Well, it’s not technically a word,” Indrid corrected. “I just sort of… made it up.”  
  
“Oh,” Duck replied. “Any particular reason?”  
  
“It sounded better to me than ‘moth-y’?” Indrid mumbled, looking kind of sheepish. Duck snorted. “Anyway, this is beside the point. The point I was originally trying to make was that yes, me being a moth has played a role in my dislike of artificial lighting. I would say it was perhaps one of the hardest things I had to try and get used to upon being exiled from Sylvain. That’s why I have these, actually,” he said, gesturing to his glasses. “You may think it odd that my disguise be something so bulky and easily removable as these glasses, and you wouldn’t be wrong to think so, but to tell you the truth, they were the only consistent item in my- admittedly limited- wardrobe. It wasn’t as if I would be going anywhere without them in the first place, so I figured, why not make them my disguise? They’re the one thing I’m sure to keep on me.”  
  
“Smart,” Duck agreed, nodding slightly. “I know I’ve probably got it nowhere near as bad as you do but trust me man, I get it. I spent my entire life livin’ with fluorescent lights and I still don’t like the damn things. I can put up with ‘em, sure- I kinda have to- but that still don’t mean I like ‘em. Damn things always look like they’re flickerin’, just slightly- just enough to be annoyin’- but nobody ever believes me when I point it out.”  
  
“Oh, good, I’m not the only one,” Indrid said.  
  
“You see it too?” Duck demanded, leaning forward in a sudden burst of excitement over the idea that he might finally have somebody to back him up on this.  
  
“Yes, I do,” Indrid confirmed. “Always just enough for it to be irksome, but never enough for it to be obvious.”  
  
“Yes!” Duck exclaimed. “I knew I wasn’t crazy!” Indrid smirked at him.  
  
“You are a great many things, Duck Newton,” Indrid said, “but ‘crazy’ is not one of them.”  
  
“I ‘preciate you sayin’ that,” Duck muttered. A moment of silence passed before Indrid cleared his throat a little awkwardly, suddenly seeming very interested in one particular corner of the ceiling.  
  
“So,” he began, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, and if it is too much to ask I completely understand, but um… I don’t exactly, generate a whole lot of my own body heat- insect, and all that- meaning that these blankets, while fantastic, don’t exactly do a whole lot for me in the ‘keeping warm’ department.” Duck’s brows furrowed.  
  
“Aw shit, hadn’t considered that,” he muttered. “I know I said I’d ask Barclay ‘bout space heaters and all that earlier, but like, much as I hate to say it man you can’t go puttin’ space heaters under the blankets with you- it’s a massive fire hazard.” Duck was no expert on facial expressions- far from it, in fact- but he could’ve sworn that the look on Indrid’s face in that moment was the look of a man silently begging for death.  
  
“I… I was not thinking about space heaters, Duck,” Indrid replied, sounding considerably strained and still refusing to look anywhere in Duck’s vicinity. It wasn’t until he scooted over slightly and pulled back the corner of the covers that Duck finally got the message.  
  
“Ohhh,” he said. “Why didn’t ya just say so?” Indrid didn’t reply to that particular comment, and Duck wasn’t about to make him. Instead, he unlaced his boots, placed his socks inside them before walking around to the other side of the bed, hopping up and worming his way under the blankets, loudly announcing that Indrid ought to “make room for t’cha boy”, settling in after a second and folding his hands on top of his chest.  
  
“So…” Duck began after a moment. He didn’t say anything else because honestly, he didn’t have anything else planned. Instead, he just stared at the unmoving ceiling fan, lightly tapping his index fingers against the surface of his own skin.  
  
“So…” Indrid repeated. Duck wasn’t looking at him in an attempt not to make things more awkward than they undoubtedly already were, and he got the distinct sense that Indrid was doing the same. “Tell about yourself, Duck,” Indrid finally continued, taking Duck a little bit aback.  
  
“Oh, well, alright, uh… what exactly do ya wanna hear? Already told ya ‘bout my cat,” Duck started. He heard Indrid exhale a bit of a laugh.  
  
“That you did,” Indrid said, then paused for a moment, thinking, before saying; “I don’t know, exactly. I suppose I just like listening to you talk.”  
  
“Oh,” Duck said dumbly. “Uh, thanks. Never heard that one before. ‘N fact, usually I hear somethin’ a lot closer to the opposite of that sentiment.”  
  
“Can’t imagine why,” Indrid said, and he actually sounded sincere. “Hmm… alright, I’ve got one!”  
  
“Let’s hear it.”  
  
“What would you say has been the strangest thing you have encountered as a forest ranger? And things directly related to Sylvain or its exiled inhabitants do not count!” Indrid said.  
  
“Huh…” Duck began. “Strangest, non-Sylvain related thing I’ve ever run into?” He thought on it for a moment, very aware of the fact that he could now feel Indrid’s eyes on him but still unwilling to look away from the ceiling fan himself. “I reckon that’d probably have to be the time the river froze over.”  
  
“The river froze over?” Indrid repeated, sounding incredulous. “I thought that was supposed to be impossible?”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Duck chuckled. “So did we. In fact, as far as I know, it still is supposed to be impossible, but this one time, ‘bout 6 or 7 years ago in… January? I’m pretty sure it was January. Mighta been February. Whatever. The point is, I was doin’ my rounds at ‘bout, mmm, 6 pm? Some time ‘round 6, and I was actually a little bit behind at the time ‘cause I mighta gotten somewhat sidetracked over seein’ what I thought was a red fox- that’s still not the point. What I’m takin’ a real roundabout way of sayin’ here is that I ended up walkin’ by the Green Briar river durin’ my rounds and there was this whole big section of it that was just… frozen. Not even the whole river, either- just this one part of it. I’d never seen water freeze like that at the time, and I’ve never seen water freeze like that since.”  
  
“That does sound very strange,” Indrid agreed.  
  
“Aw but that wasn’t even the craziest part,” Duck added.  
  
“There’s more?” Indrid asked.  
  
“Well, wouldn’t you know whether or not I was gonna keep talkin’?” Duck teased.  
  
“Not at the moment, no, as I’m not looking,” Indrid said. “And again, Duck, even if I were: not a mind reader. Now, you were saying?”  
  
“Ah, right,” Duck continued. “Anyway. So, you’d think that the ice would be like, paper thin, wouldn’t ya?”  
  
“Yes, that would make the most sense,” Indrid conceded. “You’re certainly not going to be able to get a thick sheet of ice on moving water.”  
  
“Yeah! That’s what I thought!” Duck exclaimed, propping himself up on one elbow while gesturing wildly with his other hand. In his excitement, he’d thrown away any previous reservations, and was now finally looking at Indrid rather than the ceiling fan. Indrid had also propped himself up using his good arm, and was smiling slightly as he watched Duck continue his story. “You’re not even supposed to be able to get ice on moving water, nevermind thick ice, but there was this guy out there. I’d never seen ‘im before in my life- least, not that I recognized- but he was, get this; skating. Well, not really skating, since he didn’t have any sorta skates on, so he was really more just slidin’ around in his snow boots, but either way; he was on the ice! And he wasn’t exactly small, either, he looked ‘bout full grown, meanin’ that there was ice thick enough to support a fully grown man formin’ in the middle of the fuckin’ Green Briar! Naturally I yelled at ‘im to get the fuck off the ice before it broke but he sorta panicked and ran off. Never seen ‘im since. And of course, by the time I call somebody else in to come check this shit out, the ice is gone, so everybody thinks I’m crazy, but I’m just glad that ice stuck ‘round as long as it did, otherwise that poor idiot would probably be dead right now. Hell, maybe he is. I wouldn’t be terribly surprised, given he thought it was a good idea to try an’ skate on a fuckin’ river- what’s so funny?”  
  
Indrid, who had been trying (and failing) to contain laughter for the better part of Duck’s story, lost control once he was addressed, finally just bursting out into a series of shrieks and cackles that, while initially off-putting, were actually fairly entertaining in their own right. It took him several seconds to calm down and by then, Duck found himself snickering a little bit as well, even though he still had no idea what the joke here was.  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-” Indrid cut himself off with another wheeze before recomposing himself, clearing his throat a few times for emphasis. “I’m not laughing at you, Duck, that’s not it, but I did say that Sylvain related stories didn’t count, did I not?”  
  
“Sylvain related?” Duck asked. “What’re you talkin’ about?” Indrid started giggling again, and Duck couldn’t resist smiling. Once you got past the fact that he sounded like a tea kettle on PCP, it was actually kinda cute. Kinda. In a weird way.  
  
“Let’s just say there’s a certain resident of this here lodge who might have had something to do with that particular incident,” Indrid replied. “And when I say ‘might have’, I mean that he definitely, definitely did.”  
  
“That was one of the Amnesty folks?” Duck blurted. “Well shit, I guess that actually makes a whole lot more sense. But wait, who was it? I know ya said ‘he’, so that rules out Dani, that ghost lady, and the one werewolf, but I don’t know of any guest ‘round here with like, water powers or nothin’... Have I met ‘im?”  
  
“If you’ve spent any amount of time around Amnesty Lodge, then yes, you have almost certainly met him. He's quite social,” Indrid replied. Duck’s brows furrowed.  
  
“It ain’t Barclay, is it?” He asked. “‘Cause, granted, I don’t know a whole lot ‘bout him, but I never heard of Bigfoot havin’ any sorta magic beyond just, ya know, bein’ a Bigfoot-” Indrid was laughing again.  
  
“Duck, it’s in the name!” Indrid cackled. It took Duck another couple moments of thinking before it finally dawned on him, and his expression as it did must’ve been something else because it sent Indrid into a whole new fit of laughter.  
  
“No fuckin’ way!” Duck said. “Was it that freakin’ snowboard kid? What was ‘is name again? Uh… Jack?”  
  
“I believe it’s ‘Jake’, now,” Indrid corrected. “Although funnily enough, he did used to go by Jack for a very long time. I’m not entirely sure why he decided to change names- maybe had something to do with how recognizable he was becoming- but he put just about the same amount of discretion into the new as he did to the old. Hell, I might actually argue that ‘Coolice’ is even worse than ‘Frost’, but it’s not my decision to make.”  
  
“Okay, I’m… gonna parce that later,” Duck said. “Because that was some pretty buckwild information you just dropped on me. For right now, though, how’re ya feelin’? Any better?”  
  
“Oh, much,” Indrid replied, grinning. The slightly higher-than-average level of devilishness in his smile was all the warning Duck got before-  
  
“Agh! Jesus!” Duck shrieked, nearly jumping out of his skin. Indrid was beside himself, laughing so hard he almost appeared to be convulsing. “Not cool, man!” Duck protested. “Your feet are like ice cubes holy shit!”  
  
“Apologies, Duck, I couldn’t resist,” Indrid said. And then-  
  
“ _That doesn’t mean do it again! _” Duck yelped. “Get those fuckin’ things off me!”__  
  
“But you’re warm!” Indrid protested. He then proceeded to stretch one leg up and plant his sub-zero toes on the unsuspecting skin of Duck’s abdomen, resulting in a disgruntled screech and a reflexive launch backwards that had Duck tumbling out of the bed and onto the floor. Hardly a second later, there was a knock at the door.  
  
“Is everything okay in there?” Came Barclay’s voice. “I’m hearing a lot of pretty concerning sounds.”  
  
“Everythin’s fine,” Duck grumbled from his place on the carpet. “Indrid’s just bein’ an ass.”  
  
“Yeah, he’ll do that,” Barclay agreed. Indrid didn’t even bother trying to defend himself. “I am gonna have to ask him to stop doin’ that though, at least for now, ‘cause we do have some people ‘round here tryina fuckin’ sleep.”  
  
“Sorry,” Indrid said. He did not sound very sorry.  
  
“No you ain’t,” Barclay muttered. “G’night you two, get some sleep. Try not to off each other.”  
  
“G’night!” Duck said back. The sound of footsteps retreating could be heard after only another second.  
  
“Duck?” Indrid asked, scooting across the bed to peer down at the fallen ranger. “Are you alright?”  
  
“‘M fine, no thanks to you,” Duck replied, hauling himself back up into the bed, Indrid shimmying back to make room for him. “Seriously, man, do we need to getcha some socks or somethin’? ‘Cause that shit can’t keep happenin’.”  
  
“No, no socks,” Indrid said. “Only abominations sleep with socks on.”  
  
“Do abominations even have socks?” Duck teased.  
  
“Unknown,” Indrid replied, entirely seriously. “Really though, Duck; are you okay? I apologize for my actions. I thought it would be funny, and in my defense it absolutely was, but I did not mean to make you fall over.”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” Duck reassured. “I got bitch-slapped by an evil space bear and kept on runnin’- fallin’ outta bed ain’t ‘bout to take me out.”  
  
“No, I suppose not,” Indrid agreed, smiling. There was a pause then, in which the two of them just kind of stared at each other for a moment, before Indrid kept talking. “So, while I have very much enjoyed our conversation, Duck, I do have to admit that Barclay’s suggestion of getting some sleep does sound very appealing to me right now.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Duck said. “You must be fuckin’ wiped by now.”  
  
“I am,” Indrid conceded. “It has been what one might call a ‘shitshow’ for me today. You’re welcome to leave any time you want- I won’t force you to stay the night. I can see how that could be uncomfortable.”  
  
“Hey man, as long as you still want me here, I got no problem bein’ here,” Duck replied.  
  
“Yes, well,” Indrid muttered. “Good night, Duck.”  
  
“Night, Indrid.”  
  
……………  
  
…………  
  
…………..  
  
“You sleep with your glasses on?” Duck’s voice broke the silence.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I was just askin’- do you sleep with your glasses on?” Duck repeated. “‘Cause I mean, no judgement if you do, but I was just thinkin’ that that can’t be comfortable.”  
“Oh, right,” Indrid replied. “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t, but…”  
  
“But what?” Duck prompted. Indrid was once again very interested in the ceiling.  
  
“But I didn’t figure you’d be comfortable being this close to my Sylvan form,” Indrid mumbled.  
  
“Is that what you’re worried about?” Duck asked. “Indrid, really, I don’t mind. There’s no sense in makin’ yourself uncomfortable just for my sake- that kinda defeats the whole purpose of this exercise.”  
  
“But I don’t want to make _you _uncomfortable,” Indrid said.__  
  
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Duck reassured. “I mean, yeah, I was a bit off put the first time I saw ya but that was mostly just ‘cause I wasn’t expectin’ it. I’m expectin’ it now, and I’m cool with it.”  
  
“Really?” Indrid asked.  
  
“Yeah, really,” Duck replied. “Even if I wanted to lie to ya, I couldn’t. I’m physically incapable of doing so.” Indrid snorted.  
  
“Can’t argue with that logic,” he muttered, slipping off his glasses with his left hand and reaching his long, spindly arm over Duck’s body to place them gently on the nightstand.  
  
“No you can not,” Duck agreed. “Good night, Indrid.”  
  
“... Good night, Duck.”


End file.
